


Dinner and Diatribes

by hephaestiions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Legilimency Sex (Harry Potter), M/M, Oral Sex, Teasing, they don't actually fuck in public though, they kind of do but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hephaestiions/pseuds/hephaestiions
Summary: Socialising isn't Harry's thing. Draco does his best to help.And if his idea ofhelpingis a touch skewed– well. Harry isn't complaining, is he?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 171





	Dinner and Diatribes

**Author's Note:**

> On New Year's Eve, most people break out the champagne, pen down resolutions and resolve to start the new year off on the right foot. My version of starting off the new year right happens to be writing almost 5k words of literal mindfucking and I make no apologies for anything other than the fact that this was written mostly at 3 am and though my excellent beta did a phenomenal job, the post-midnight delirium probably makes an appearance multiple times. 
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta, lunawrites who went over this with a fine tooth comb and to the GWB server for not only inspiring this soft filthiness but also encouraging it.

"You're in a mood."

The words roll off Harry's tongue, laced with a slow rasp, the result of a whiskey cocktail drunk too early in the night, sweetened by his broad hand curling around Draco's waist, fingers skimming his side. Around them, the clink of glasses and bubbling conversation of Kingsley's cocktail party swirls and ebbs, flirting with Draco's attention before drifting away, their advances unheeded.

Nothing competes with the way Harry leans in, warm breath ghosting over Draco's ear, innocuous words turned erotic simply because it’s Harry who utters them— innocent touch turned burning brand of arousal through the layers of Draco’s clothes.

This evening, filled to the brim with polite chit-chat and feigned interest in subjects neither of them have had the prior misfortune to hear of, has been testing Draco’s restraint. In fact, he's fairly certain if he were to push Harry against the nearest wall right now and fuck him raw against it, no one would have it in them to fault him. There's only so much a man can take, and Harry Potter dressed to the nines in a tuxedo fit to perfection does not simply cross the threshold– it  _ obliterates _ it.

But contrary to popular perception, Draco is a considerate man– and the walls of Kingsley's new bungalow are artfully adorned with one too many framed paintings that would inevitably shatter if introduced to the kind of lovemaking– no,  _ fucking– _ that Harry and Draco engage in. And while Draco is usually all for causing Harry just enough pain to keep things interesting, forcing the poor man to come while shards of glass poke into his back isn't sexy, even by his standards.

As for his response to Harry's sinful whisper– "You should know, love, you put me in it."

Harry's breath hitches, his grip tightening. Draco hides a smile with a surreptitious sip of his champagne.

_ Bullseye, darling. _

"You're a menace," Harry says, a hint of breathlessness softening the edge of his words.

"And you're the one who prioritised punctuality over being fucked in the shower, so I would argue you  _ deserve _ it."

He looks up just in time to see the corners of Harry's eyes crinkling with mirth, the soft upturn of a smile brightening his countenance which has been steadily dimming as the night draws on— the pressure of maintaining a fa ç ade that couldn't be further from who Harry is. Given the little game Draco has in mind to toy with Harry, the genuine delight in making him drop his guard and loosen up elicits a smirk.

"You're being saucy tonight, aren't you?" Harry asks, voice rich with amusement.

Draco shrugs.  _ If Harry only knew. _

For a brief second, Harry lets all semblance of pretence drop, pressing his lips to Draco's temple. It's quick and chaste, surprisingly tender. It's not entirely uncharacteristic– Harry's gestures always speak louder than his words– but Draco worries.

"Are you quite alright?" he asks, turning into the curve of Harry's arm, locking himself into the embrace. A screw wound too tight loosens just enough for Draco as Harry settles into the touch.

"I don't like these things," Harry confesses under his breath. And though it's not new by any means, this forbidden revelation– it still plucks at the heartstrings Draco has tuned only to Harry. He notices the masked grimaces, the feigned interest, the well-concealed mortification when Harry is praised continuously and tactlessly by Ministry officials– Harry bears the burden of expectation with the weathered grace of a man who has pushed himself through the same storm one too many times. It's a predictable tragedy– he survives the wind and waters only to escape looking just a little worse for wear. "It's all–"

"Unnecessary?"

"Too much," Harry says with a nod.

"We could leave," Draco suggests, because no game, however exciting he intends to make it, will ever take precedence over Harry's comfort. "I'll speak to Kingsley. You tell Granger–"

"I'd rather not," Harry says, taking Draco's hand and kissing his knuckles gently. "Kingsley's planning a toast and it's undoubtedly going to be something tastefully embarrassing. He has requested I be there and you know better than anyone it's just not done to make the Minister look like a fool."

"My love's a busy man," Draco says, still stuck on the oddly touching gesture. He rubs his thumb over the spot where Harry's lips touched his fingers, the slow spread of want pulsating through his veins with every breath and heartbeat. "Alright then, another couple of hours."

Harry’s face contorts momentarily into one of those grimaces only Draco seems to notice and lets his head drop for a split second onto Draco's shoulder. It's slightly unbecoming but Draco doubts the Minister's guests will begrudge the Saviour a moment of solace. "At least you're here.” The words are muffled into the soft fabric of Draco's robes, so low that Draco barely hears them over the ambient sounds. "I hate these things, but they're downright unbearable alone."

"Not the place to be maudlin, Potter," Draco says lightly, though his heart clenches. He tries when he can to attend these events with Harry, but not every space is accepting enough of Draco or his relationship with Harry. It's self-evident when there is no separate invitation for Draco nor any allusion to a “plus one” on Harry's. Nevertheless, Draco forces him into the robes and tuxedos for those events, coaxing him like one would a recalcitrant child. He hates the look on Harry's face on those days— dark, closed off— the way his limbs are stiff, his eyes dull. Harry looks like a marionette with its strings cut, and Draco hates that there is  _ so much _ to the man in front of him but he's still asked to and forced to attend events for the sake of a name. 

They both know if he doesn't go, the backlash will be too vitriolic to handle.

The stolen moment passes in the blink of an eye, and the next thing Draco knows, Harry is lifting himself up and off, dusting down the front of his robes and plastering on a genial smile that does excellent things for his cheekbones but somehow doesn't reach his eyes. He blinks at Draco, hair adorably mussed in the front and Draco runs his fingers through under the guise of fixing it. They both know it's a bald-faced lie– nothing Draco could ever do would fix the untidy mop atop Harry's head; but in seven long years, Draco has grown particularly fond of it anyway, especially the way it feels under his fingers in moments such as this. Harry smiles, letting his eyes flutter shut for a second, and Draco, unable to resist, presses a kiss to his cheek.

"You'll be fine?" Draco asks, giving Harry an out if he needs one. But Harry just forces the wall between himself and the world back up and nods.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Harry lets go of Draco's waist and grips his hand tight before releasing it. "What else have I ever needed?"

Draco is a firm skeptic when it comes to saints– he has had to learn the hard way that even a sliver of goodness demands too high a price– but he finds himself thinking he must have been one in a past life to have deserved Harry in this one.

(He does not think about the number of prayers it would take to even come close to deserving him in the next.)

The evening meanders on, and Draco is pulled aside by an enthusiastic gent who waxes poetic to him about the research he's done on Unicorn blood. He doesn't know if he should be alarmed by the suggestive undercurrent in the man's words that indicates him as an individual a little too interested in which channels to procure a substance so highly regulated, but he worms his way out of the conversation just in time to both avoid becoming an unwitting supplier and to notice the dark flicker in Harry's eyes as he speaks to a lady in a white wig about something that makes his smile look painted on. 

Draco had planned on doing this at the dinner table, but Harry looks ready to blast a hole through one of Kingsley's expensively papered walls with accidental magic.  _ No matter _ , he thinks, watching the way Harry fidgets from one foot to another.

He reaches out with his magic, the tendrils of it ripe with intent, seeking out the wildfire that is Harry's magical reservoir. Harry's magic is distinct in a way Draco hasn't encountered otherwise– an electrically charged forest; a ley line contained within one human being, an inextinguishable wildfire smouldering. It's exquisite and addictive, and Draco loves it a little too much to not be hyper aware of it in every room he steps into where Harry holds court.

Harry is a flame and Draco is Prometheus.

Over the years, Harry has grown better at  _ Occlumency _ than his brief and ill-advised stint in Fifth Year with Snape, but he still relies more on brute force to keep enemies out than actual mental prowess. It helps that Auror training has made him aware of his body, including the edges of his consciousness– he’s no longer susceptible to the wiles of cerebral trespassers. But Draco isn't here to give Harry nightmares or steal his memories. He's here to–

_ Well, hello there, love. _

Harry startles violently and the lady before him lets out a shriek, clutching a hand to her heart. The social training kicks in and Harry's defences fall right back into place as he smiles placatingly at her, but his magic is a glorious tornado, meeting Draco with all the force of a sea storm, pulling him closer and overwhelming his senses.

_ Brat, _ says Harry's voice in his head.  _ You almost gave me a heart attack. _

_ You were looking like you were about to have a panic attack anyway, _ Draco says.  _ I was just looking to make things more interesting. _

Draco sees the small smile scuttle across Harry's otherwise blank face.  _ Ah, the famed Malfoy logic. What's better than a panic attack in a ballroom? A heart attack. Makes perfect sense, love, of course. _

They say it often.  _ Love. _ At thirty two, calling each other boyfriends feels like something out of a bad romance novel and calling each other partners feels both like a business arrangement and an inadequate explanation of what they really are. But–

Love.

Best to call things what they are.

_ It's only taken you seven years to make sense of me. _

Harry smiles again and Draco wonders who this game is actually for. After all, Harry doesn't need games to send Draco's heart racing and blood thrumming. He only needs to smile.

And oh— oh— Harry is smiling now, bold and beautiful, a slight red flush tinting the highs of his cheekbones and Draco realises the downsides of having one's thoughts connected. Except– well, nothing that makes Harry smile that unfettered charismatic grin could be a downside in any universe.

Truly, his plan is immaculate.

_ When do I become acquainted with this plan I keep hearing about? _ Harry asks in his head. There's a trace of apprehension but no real fear and Draco is glad for the way Harry approaches every new thing that Draco throws at him– cautious willingness to try almost anything.

_You'll see_ , Draco says. Other than _love_ , the name Harry calls him most often is _bloody_ _tease_ and is a name worth it, if it isn't lived up to?

_ Don't do anything I wouldn't _ , Harry warns. Draco smirks and turns away, knowing Harry is watching.

Half an hour of painful mingling ensues within which the litany of Harry's subconscious thoughts keeps him better company than his second glass of wine. Harry doesn't think himself funny, but the inside of his mind is a wondrously sarcastic space where he stores away all the quips and the quick clapbacks that occur to him while he grins and bears the many stories he isn't interested in hearing. Draco is startled into laughter more than once when Harry's less than acceptable rejoinders make their way into their shared thoughts. 

He knows people who have fallen out of love three years into their relationships. He knows people who look for reasons to stay in love every day. In fact, he's been offered that particular piece of advice more than once. But the necessity for an Easter egg hunt of reasons to stay in love is absent when the man in question enamours him without trying every minute of every day.

The awareness of Harry settles into his being with ease born of belonging. Harry belongs in his mind, in his body, in every empty space he has within himself to hold the overflow of Harry's existence.  _ You _ , he thinks, intentionally, deliberately, touching his racing pulse at the side of his throat,  _ are everything _ .

For a minute, the constant stream of thoughts quiet, a steady, warm silence winding its way into Draco's core. Then comes the response in a voice Draco only ever hears from Harry on early foggy mornings and late nights curled up in bed in a post-coital haze:  _ You are every dream come true at once. _

This is it, Draco thinks, eyes closing and thoughts whirling. This is the moment he combusts, races across the room and apparates Harry away, appearances be damned, this is the moment they–

Kingsley is tapping a spoon against his glass.

Across the room, Harry's eyes veil a brewing storm as Kingsley announces dinner. 

Draco swallows, readying himself.  _ I was thinking earlier _ , Draco projects, as they make their way leisurely towards the dining room,  _ how it would make perfect sense if I were to rip your clothes off right in the middle of this tasteful soiree and fuck you against the wall. _

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Harry stagger and come to a halt. Draco keeps walking.

_ And now I'm thinking it would be more comfortable for all involved if the main course for dinner was me eating you out on that gorgeous table Kingsley's laid _ .

He sits himself down in the chair the House Elf ushers him towards. Harry is nowhere in sight. No matter.

_ I should have known _ , Draco continues, spreading the napkin out on his lap,  _ what I was doing to myself when I picked that suit out for you. _

Something crashes and the party stops in its tracks to look around for the source of the disturbance. Draco feigns surprise when he notices the culprit– the remnants of a complicated glass vase littering the corner of the dining hall. Kingsley looks confused and the House Elf who appears to vanish it away looks mortified.

Across from him, Harry stumbles into his seat, a bright flush riding high on his cheeks.

_ If this is what a little bit of dirty talk does to you within five minutes, I imagine this whole place is going to be in splinters by the time we're done, Potter. _

Either Harry's learned one way Occlumency immaculately, or he's truly having trouble thinking about anything at all. His magic is an explosive beast in the periphery.

_ Look at me, _ he thinks.

Harry keeps his eyes resolutely turned towards the table.

_ Love, look at me. _

Harry is hesitant, but he turns his ruddy face towards Draco anyway. His expression is breathtaking– an unregulated chaos of emotion. He's a debauched angel in the flesh, his green eyes the brightest stars in the constellation of his spirit.

With a shaking hand, he reaches for the filled glass and Draco hungrily watches his Adam's apple bob.

_ I bet if I asked you to suck me off right now, you would in a heartbeat. _

Harry's hand spasms. A rivulet of water trickles down his chin and onto the pristine white material of his collar.

_ Would you? _

Harry nods.

It's time, Draco thinks to himself, a thrill rushing through him. He closes his eyes, recreating the dinner table as perfectly as he can in his mind's eye. Except here, across from him, Harry's suit jacket is draped on the back of his chair. Harry's collar here is rumpled, the top button undone. It's inappropriate without being revealing, and in the fantasy Draco is concocting in his mind and transferring to Harry's, Harry does the unthinkable in a social setting with all his bosses present– and ducks under the table.

Draco opens his eyes. Harry's eyes are clenched shut and his fingers are tapping a steady rhythm on the soft material at his thigh. A nervous tic to the unknowing eye; a way to work off the tension of arousal.

In his fantasy, Draco spreads his legs beneath the table. The tactile sensation of Harry between his calves is electric and he knows Harry feels it on the edges of his consciousness– he knows Harry feels the touch that Draco is imagining, the sensation he knows only too well from having done this very thing in bed, at the kitchen table, in the shower.

The interesting part of this– the part that had Draco consider, reconsider, and almost discard this whole plan for being too much of a wildcard to work– is that Harry doesn't feel anything himself. He feels the sensations Draco is recreating for himself in his head. Any arousal on Harry's part is a direct consequence of having the equivalent of pornography play out in his head and that is–

_ Deliciously _ dirty.

The Harry in his head puts his hands on Draco's thighs.

Harry in real life shudders.

"Are you alright, love?" Draco says, feigning concern and reaching across the table without letting the scene in his head waver. "You look a little peaky."

Harry's green eyes are desperate and pleading when he opens them. "Ah– I– I just..."

Susan Bones, sitting to Harry's left, leans in and lays a concerned hand on Harry's back. "Merlin," she exclaims, in a low voice. "You're soaked through! Is something the matter?"

Harry shakes his head, curls flopping across his forehead. The Minister has excellent cooling enchantments throughout his home and yet Harry's hair is plastered to his temples.

"I'm alright," he manages with a shaky smile. "Probably a fever coming on."

Susan turns towards Draco, concern in her eyes. "Shouldn't you better take him home, then?"

In his fantasy, Harry puts his mouth to Draco's clothed cock. Draco bites down on the sound that threatens to spill from his lips.

The actual Harry's tongue darts out to wet his chapped lips. He looks tense and shaky, hands fisted on the tablecloth. Without missing a beat, Draco places his hand over one of Harry's fists. The touch is like a match set to dry wood– everything is intensified manifold. Harry shudders.

"Home, love?"

It's an opening. Harry's in a state, and if he wants it, Draco will make both of their excuses and take him home. But Harry, despite the trembles that Draco feels vibrating through his body, opens his eyes and shakes his head adamantly.

"Just– just a little bit longer, anyway," he says, turning a placating smile on Susan that looks much too close to a grimace. Susan doesn't stop looking concerned, but she nods hesitantly.

"Might as well eat," she says, sympathetically, "if you've made it this far through this nightmare."

Draco laughs as an excuse to release the pressure of built-up sound. Fantasy Harry mouths along the length of his cock.

_ Draco, _ he finally hears, echoing in his head.  _ Love, please _ .

_ Please what? _ Draco asks, even as his fantasy self reaches down and cards his fingers through Fantasy Harry's hair, pulling on it, just the way Harry likes it when his throat is being fucked.

_ I– _

_ Should I stop, sweetheart? _

_ No! No, please, Draco– _

In the fantasy, Harry pulls Draco's zipper down with his teeth. In reality, Harry buries his head in his hands, consequences be damned. A few people shoot him worried glances.

_ Do you want to come? _

_ Yes _ , Harry groans in his head.  _ Yes, please. _

_ Pity _ , Draco thinks, reaching for his own glass of water. He looks more composed than Harry, but he feels just as devastated.  _ No one can touch you here _ .

Harry reaches for Draco's hand across the table. Draco lets him and almost gasps from the surprise of the punishing grip.

The sensation of hot breath on his cock changes in pressure as Fantasy Harry noses at the base of his dick. It continues for a little longer, until Draco drags him by the curls and pushes his open mouth down onto his cock.

It's torturous and glorious in equal measure and Draco has to cross his legs under the table to keep himself from reaching into his trousers.

"Susan," he eventually says, when he notices Harry is leaning back in his chair, eyes open and pleading, whole body shaking. "Would you let Kingsley know Harry's feeling a tad under the weather and I'm taking him to the bathroom?"

–

The upstairs bathroom the elf shows them to is a tastefully done up affair with warm lighting and bronze fixtures attached to a guest room. In any other scenario, Draco would probably have taken a moment to discern between marble and graphite tiles; would have judged the positioning of the basin and the shower and the brand of soap in the cabinets. But now, with Harry shaking against him with unadulterated need, Draco doesn’t have the time to notice anything that isn’t the way Harry’s eyes are blown dark and his lips are bitten red and raw from pent up frustration. 

Draco sits Harry down on the lip of the tub and kneels before him, letting Harry slip his trembling hands into his hair. He wonders what the guests downstairs would think about his method of making the Chosen One feel better as he undoes his trousers and pulls them down with his pants.

"You're gorgeous," he says, even as Harry moans, a tiny, pained sound of complaint. 

"Please," he sobs, begging Draco. "You don’t know how it–"

Draco swallows him. Harry sobs harder, finally able to feel Draco’s mouth around his cock, his hands clenching tighter in Draco's hair. Draco brings one hand up to Harry's thigh, digging in with his fingertips to hold him in place. With the other he traces Harry's heavy balls with a fingertip, light and teasing at some points, rougher at others. All the while, Harry moans softly into the thick air which already smells of sweat and passion.

_ I would lay you out _ , Draco thinks, because his throat is full with the heavy weight of Harry in it,  _ on that table. All the guests would watch, spellbound, as I turned you over, your hard cock grazing the wood. I’d pull your arse up by your hips– you love it when I simply take what I want, don't you darling? Yes, I’d pull it up and part your cheeks, show off that gorgeous little hole for all the world to see. You've got a beautiful arsehole, love, I wish the world knew what I have in bed with me every day. _

Harry's hands pull needily at Draco’s hair, the sounds slipping from his mouth incoherent half-words and phrases that make no sense but almost always end in some variant of expletive-laced pleading.

But the times he moans Draco's name like it is the dirtiest word of them all are Draco’s favourite. He's heard his name spoken as a curse often enough, heard it screamed, heard it whispered. And yet the way Harry says it, lost and delirious, with a reverence born of repeated blasphemy– it makes his cock harden even more as he bucks and his hips quicken.

In his mouth, Harry's cock throbs. Under his fingertips, Draco feels Harry’s balls harden.

_ I'd trace my tongue around your hole, love. Soft and easy, make you go pliant until you're moaning as prettily as you are right now, for all the dinner guests. You're delicious, did you know? I could eat you out for days. _

Harry comes.

It floods Draco's mouth– the salty-bitter taste overwhelming Draco's senses and Harry's spiralling magic crashes like a wave upon the shore. It's overwhelming in the best possible way and it draws Draco in, until he's coming too, hard and wet in the tight confines of his pants.

In the aftermath, the only sound in the bathroom is their heavy breathing.

"We just fucked," Harry says, voice low and raspy, "in the Minister's bathroom."

"In the Minister's  _ guest _ bathroom," Draco clarifies. "And we didn't exactly fuck, we just–" He gestures between them. "Did that."

Harry blinks at him. "We fucked."

Draco sighs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, we fucked in the Minister's bathroom."

"They're probably waiting for us downstairs," Harry says. "I'm sure two courses are over at least."

Draco murmurs in agreement, sitting back on his heels. "And yet I’ve only had one."

Above him, Harry laughs. He sounds exhausted but also loose and free in a way he hasn't been all evening.

"Who knew a little exhibitionism got you going like that," Draco remarks, quirking an eyebrow teasingly.

"Shut up," Harry says, colouring. "Merlin, one day you'll be on the receiving end of it and you'll see how it fucking feels. Your magic, Draco, it's–" He shakes his head, smiling a little ruefully. "I should have known you didn't pull that  _ Legilimency _ stunt just to keep me company."

"I did keep you company!" Draco protests. "I kept you company throughout!"

Harry laughs again and the sound makes the furled bud of anxiety he’s been trying not to acknowledge throughout flutter and disappear.

"Oh, you didn't––" Harry begins, hesitating. " I can–"

"It's been seven years," Draco says, a little wryly. "Do you not know what you do to me without touching me?"

Harry's eyes widen. "You–?"

"Came while blowing you, yeah."

"Godric and Salazar," Harry says, gripping the edges of the tub till his knuckles turn white. "You're bloody brilliant."

"Because I–?"

"Because you– you find me desirable enough to just–" Harry gestures again. "It won't stop surprising me in this life, Draco, everything that…You and I and what we can do, it won't ever stop surprising me."

"I'm not sure," Draco says, feeling the heat in his cheeks, "that the Minister's guest bathroom is the appropriate place for this conversation."

"Merlin, no, you’re definitely right," Harry says, grimacing and reaching for his wand. "And remind me to anonymously replace that vase. Here, let me clean you up."

The warm wash of Harry's magic is so comfortable, so familiar that Draco leans into the caress of it. With a small, reluctant sigh, he closes his eyes and calls on his own magic to draw itself back in.

"Don't," Harry says, when he realises what Draco is about to do. "Don't. It– it keeps me sane."

Harry isn't the best with words. He doesn't always know the right things to say, doesn't always know the right way to make a point. But every so often, he says things that burrow their way deep into Draco's heart to take up residence in that space he keeps reserved for everything Harry.

_ You keep me sane. _

Harry smiles, wide and unhesitant, gently tucking a lock of Draco’s hair behind his ear. Draco can hardly believe it sometimes– the way Harry still takes every offering of his love with the same reverence he had all those years ago. 

"Poor Susan," Harry mutters under his breath, when they pull away unwillingly. "She really thought I was coming down with something."

"In her defence," Draco says, a little proudly, "you were looking a right mess. In fact, you  _ still _ are."

Harry curses and casts a few charms that straighten out his collar and iron out the creases from his jacket. He turns towards Draco and with a tiny smile, casts the same charms in quick succession. Draco reaches up to fix his hair.

"You're so beautiful," Harry says, pulling Draco in by the chin for a small but intense kiss.  _ I'm so lucky to have this. _

"We've probably missed all of dinner by now," Draco says quietly, pulling away to rest their foreheads together.

"Oh, didn't you know?" Harry asks, deadpan. "I was so ill throughout, I couldn't stop vomiting. You were holding my hair back."

Unable to resist, Draco steals another kiss. And another. And another.

"We need to go," he eventually says, even though every part of him aches to just go home with Harry. "Kingsley said he had an announcement."

"Stay with me," Harry says, taking Draco's hand in his. "Ask Susan to change seats with you."

It feels like Hogwarts. It feels like youth. It tastes of love and longing. Seven years, and the petals of their love are as rich with colour as they ever were.

Hand in hand, they descend, Harry taking care to still look a little peaky, even though the conspiratorially mischievous looks he shoots Draco on the staircase are confirmation enough that he actually feels quite peachy.

Before they step into the dining room, all Draco has time for before they are enveloped by conversation and concern is a thought that settles like a band around his heart, stronger than a bond, more weighted than any wedding ring–

_ To forever and a day, my love _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's song, Dinner and Diatribes, one of my absolute favourite songs that I used as a soundtrack while writing most of this. When shall I stop using song references in my titles, you ask? Not until I get sued.


End file.
